


Baggage

by impsy



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Depression, Gen, M/M, Pre-Slash, Season/Series 07
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-29
Updated: 2012-09-29
Packaged: 2017-11-15 06:56:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,084
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/524424
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/impsy/pseuds/impsy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean can't quite let go of Cas, even when he knows full well he's gone. He attempts to cope with his best friend's death with his usual methods, but as expected, they don't work so well - especially not when he keeps seeing the angel in his dreams.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Baggage

**Author's Note:**

> Been working on this on and off for months, and finally just decided to post what I have. Un-beta'd, apologies for any mistakes!

The sun was just barely peeking over the horizon as Dean stumbled out of the motel room, the door slamming back against the wall inside, and he couldn't help leaning heavily against the doorframe for a moment as he tried to adjust to the light.  
"Hey." Sam's voice was quiet, hesitant, worried, and it took Dean a moment to remember why. His eyes were bleary, stomach wanting to rebel, head pounding. Getting his thoughts in order could be a struggle on his best days, much less on mornings like this one. "You okay?"  
"Fine," he said, and he glanced back over his shoulder to glare at the half-full - okay, nevermind, the empty - bottle of Jack sitting on the bedside table.  
The rattle of a pill bottle made him turn around just in time to catch the ibuprofen his brother had tossed his way, and Sam caught his eyes.  
"We can stay a little longer if-"  
"I said I'm fine."  
His brother sighed, the long-suffering sound of a man who doesn't know when to quit, and pulled a clean-ish shirt over his head. "Seriously, Dean. I know you don't want to talk, but could you at least listen?"  
Dean ignored him, electing instead to stalk into the dark bathroom, sullenly filling a plastic cup with nasty tap water to down the pills. The light flipped on and he winced.  
"Are you really never gonna talk to me about this?" Sam had moved to stand in the doorway, effectively blocking his escape route.  
"Nothing to talk about."  
"Dean..."  
"Don't pull that puppydog shit on me, man." He stepped forward to push past him, but Sam reached out to grab his shoulder, turning him around.  
"I know things have been bad lately-"  
"Dude. Seriously?"  
"-but don't you think that maybe you should cut back? Just a little?"  
Dean had spent a lifetime becoming immune to his brother's disappointed looks, and he would be damned - again - if he gave in to that shit now. He met Sam's eyes, wishing for something to distract him, someone he could talk to without burdening his brother-  
"He's gone, Dean," Sam said, not unkindly, and the reminder hit him like a punch to the gut. Sam looked so caring and understanding that Dean's hands clenched into fists, and he tore his eyes away before he could do something stupid. "I miss him too. But we're still alive, okay? It's just- I'm worried about you. You've totally checked out. It's like you're not really here anymore."  
"You ever stop and think that maybe I don't wanna be?" he snapped before he could stop himself. Hurt flashed across Sam's face, quickly replaced by concern, and Dean snarled soundlessly, pushing past him out the door and into the parking lot before Sam could object.  
The humidity was almost suffocating, a sure sign of another scorcher of a summer day. Sweat immediately prickled at the back of his neck, dripping down his back under the thin white t-shirt he'd blindly pulled out of his duffel bag.  
One overpriced bottle of water from the vending machine later, he glanced around the parking lot, a jolt of fear shooting through his hangover-addled brain when none of the cars were his baby. But his mind slowly caught up. She's gone, hidden away and safe, at least, but she wasn't coming back until they could deal with Dick and the Leviathans. But at least he'd get her back eventually, unlike-  
He swore and headed for the rusty gray Mazda they'd been driving for the past week, pulling the latest disposable cell phone out of his pocket. Frank had texted last night to let them know where to stop and what their next car would be, and he double checked the instructions as he unlocked the trunk.  
Neither he or Sam ever had a lot of possessions, but they'd cut back even further since being forced to stash the Impala, so the trunk was pretty bare. Small blessings, at least, he thought, gathering the few things they hadn't dragged into the hotel room. A big bag of rock salt, a laundry bag full of dirty clothes, a couple protection charms that must have fallen out of their pockets at some point, and...  
Dean forced his head up, his eyes fixed on the rising sun, the light making him squint and his eyes water, but he set his jaw stubbornly as he willed his thumping heart to return to normal speed.  
He's gone. He's not coming back. It's time to move on.  
But Dean had never been one to do the smart thing, and he reached out to pick up the bloodstained trenchcoat and pull it into his arms with all the other supplies. And if his fingertips lingered on the fabric for a moment longer than necessary... well, nobody had to know.  
The quiet click of a door locking made him glance back over his shoulder. Sam didn't look happy, but what else was new? At least he had their bags all packed up and they could get the hell out of there.  
The car Frank had set up for them to switch to was two blocks away, so he left the keys on the back seat of the old one as instructed, falling into pace with Sam as he led the way to a rusted old Toyota. He could feel the tension between them, the silence stretching on like a rubber band about to snap.  
Sammy threw the bags in the trunk and Dean fit everything else in around them, keeping his eyes firmly down as he placed the folded trenchcoat on the side, though he could feel his brother's gaze on him.  
"You drive," he said, heading for the passenger side.  
Sam didn't comment, just got behind the wheel, fishing around under the seat for the keys he knew were hidden there.  
"Where we headed?"  
Sam's jaw tensed, but he still replied. "Other side of the state. Sounded like a routine haunting, according to Bobby."  
"It'd be a nice break if it stays that way," Dean said, but he didn't really believe it would. When were things ever easy? "Speaking of a break..." He pulled off his jacket, folding it behind his head and leaning back. "If you need something, deal with it yourself, I'm napping."  
Sam couldn't resist a half smile at this, and Dean counted it as a win as he closed his eyes and let the sounds of the road lull him back to sleep.

* * *

"You should listen to your brother, Dean." Cas says from behind him. "He's right about this."  
Dean doesn't question the angel's advice, or even his presence. It's hardly the first time he's dreamt of him. They're back in that barn where they'd first met, the trap for Castiel that had only served to show Dean exactly how powerless he was. He was saved by an angel. A freakin' _angel_.  
He still has trouble believing that. Sometimes, when he doesn't drink himself to sleep, he marvels that this all-powerful creature actually gave a shit about him, enough to drag him out of hell, bring him back to life, rebel against the forces of heaven and die for him several times over.  
"Are you listening to me?"  
"Not really."  
"Dean," Cas says, and he blinks and focuses on his friend again, those bright blue eyes looking at him so intently that he takes a half step back. "Where are you?"  
He barks a laugh. "You tell me, Cas. You're the one in my head."  
"This is your dream," he points out, raising an eyebrow. "I assume you're here because you desire it. Or your subconscious does." His voice is perfectly even and emotionless, as always, but one corner of his mouth quirks as if he's holding back a smile. "But if you don't want to talk..."  
"No." He knows it's his dream, that Cas can't actually go anywhere if he doesn't want him to, but he still says it immediately - he got so used to Cas disappearing on him that he's learned to speak fast if he doesn't want him to go. He reaches out his hand toward him before dropping it awkwardly when Cas looks at him, his head tilted slightly. "Stay."  
"Of course." The barn fades away, and there's suddenly a park bench beside them. And a park.  
He accepts the sudden change of scenery with a shrug and they both sit down.  
He used to yell at Cas every time he dreamt about him. He had so many questions, so much _rage_ , been so hurt by the betrayal, that he couldn't do anything else. And this dream-Cas would just stand there and accept his anger, his head bowed as if in prayer.  
It got old. He was tired of yelling, of begging for answers he'd never get.  
Now he just wanted his friend back.  
"What would you like to talk about today, Dean?"  
He shrugs, looks away. "Nothing to say."  
"Why's that?"  
He snorts and looks at him, really looks at him for the first time since he dreamed him into existence. Castiel looked so _real_ , his eyes just as blue, his frown just as severe, his trenchcoat just as wrinkled and dirty. He wants to reach out and touch him, but stops himself, reminds himself that Cas is solid, feels like he's actually there. If Dean didn't know in his bones that this was a dream, he'd think it was really Cas, hopping into his dreams to talk to him like he'd done so many times before.  
"Because you're not really here, Cas." He can't look at him as he says it, even if he knows, _knows_ , that he's just talking to himself. "I wish you were, but that doesn't mean you're not actually- out there in the real world, you know, you're..."  
"Dead."  
"Yeah."  
The fact doesn't seem to bother Cas like it does Dean, and his eyes meet Dean's with that thousand-yard stare that used to unnerve him so much. "I'm sorry."  
He says it like he means it. Sorry not just for being dead, but for everything, all the mistakes and misunderstandings and betrayals.  
But of course he sounds like he means it. This is Dean's dream, and Dean _wants_  him to mean it.  
And for a minute, he lets himself believe. He feels all his anger over the betrayal, Purgatory, what he'd had done to Sam, all slipping away. Here, all is forgiven, forgotten, never existed.  
It all feels far away, unimportant, next to the warmth of Cas's hand when he reaches out and squeezes Dean's shoulder.  
"I know," Dean says, allowing himself in the dream to lean into the touch and for once, not care why he was doing it.

* * *

The case wasn't simple. How could it possibly be?  
The locals and the newspaper had led them to a house that the construction crew working on it swore was haunted. By the time they'd done their research - a suicide thirty years ago seemed most likely, buried in a family plot out back - the sun was low on the horizon, and they'd checked into their motel before driving over.  
The house needed some serious work, but it definitely had potential. It was down one of those beautiful old ones with the hand-carved detailing on the outside that someone was gonna make a fortune on once they gutted and updated it. Unfortunately, that was gonna be tricky to do with a ghost trying to rip their throats out.  
But _of course_ it wasn't just one ghost - apparently there were more deaths over the years, they just hadn't gone back far enough to notice. Dean dug up their graves from the family plot out back while Sam apologized profusely for missing that fact as he provided covering fire, which made Dean slightly more inclined to forgive him.  
"Uh, Dean?"  
He grunted, throwing another shovel full of dirt out of the way. His muscles burned, and he took a moment to wipe sweat out of his eyes. "Little busy here, Sammy!"  
"The house is on fire."  
"What the-" He stood, peering out of the grave. So it was. And spreading fast. "Shit. Get everything ready, I'm almost there." The bones couldn't be much further, and this should be the last one, and at least things couldn't get much worse...  
And then it started to rain.  
"God dammit, why do I even..."  
A shotgun blast rang out from behind him, but the ghost was too quick for Sam, immediately reappearing behind him and shoving his hands into Sam's back. His brother screamed in agony, dropping his gun.  
Dean surged forward, jumping half out of the grave and leaning half on the ground, his legs hanging down, stretching forward. Sam's screams rang in his ears, and his heart raced as the rain soaked them both. His fingertips barely reached the gun, and he grabbed at it, the rain making it more difficult to hold on to, but he hoisted himself up further, just enough to snatch the gun and shoot the bastard. The ghost screamed and vanished, and Sam collapsed to his hands and knees, blood and rain staining the back of his shirt.  
"Sam, you okay?"  
"Fine," he said, jaw clenched and eyes squeezed shut. The rain made his hair hang toward the ground in long tendrils.  
For a moment, he could only stare as Sam struggled to overcome his pain and simply breathe. A ghost. A single ghost had gotten the jump on him, and if Dean had been a second slower, Sam could have died. They were good, but they weren't perfect. They needed someone else, someone they could trust-  
He shut that line of thought down before it took him places he didn't, couldn't, go and turned back to finish the job. He couldn't fix Sam right now, couldn't always be there watching his brother's back, couldn't bring back the friend who'd helped them so many times, but he could sure as hell stop that damn ghost from hurting him again.  
Almost immediately, his shovel struck paydirt, scraping loudly along the old coffin, and he hurried to clear away the rest of the dirt, pulling the lid away and throwing it to Sam's waiting hands. After that, they made quick work of the bones, though getting the lighter to ignite in the rain proved to be a challenge. The ghost appeared in front of them just as the lighter caught, and Dean grinned and tossed it down into the grave. And while it wasn't the bright little bonfire their bone-burnings usually were, the ghost screamed and burned away, the sound echoing through the darkness over the crackling of the fire that was quickly consuming the house.  
But another sound continued after the screaming stopped - the wailing of sirens from the fire and police departments that were likely on their way to them.  
The two of them exchanged a quick glance and a nod before racing toward the car, Dean fumbling for the keys with hands slippery from the rain, and the doors were barely slammed shut before they were tearing off down the street.  
"Hit the interstate," Sam said, hissing as he reached over his shoulder to check out his wounds. "We shouldn't stick around."  
"Yeah, I hear ya." The rain was coming down in sheets now, and Dean switched the windshield wipers on to the quickest setting, but he still couldn't see a damn thing.  
"Dean, the curve-!"  
"FUCK!"  
He turned, but he overcompensated, and the car swerved dangerously, the tires squealing as they go sliding across the rain-slick road. He reached out for Sam's shoulder, gripping him tightly in a vain attempt to keep him safe as the car began to spin. The trees on the side of the road came up suddenly, and-  
A hand was on his shoulder, shaking him as roughly as he dared, and Dean struggled back to consciousness. Sam's voice barely cutting through through the fog and the sharp pain in his head.  
"-have to go, Dean, come on, man, don't do this-"  
"'m fine," he managed, coughing. His hands were shaking like the way they did when he hadn't had a drink in a while and he struggled to unbuckle the seatbelt, until Sam pushed his hands out of the way and unfastened it on the first attempt, kicking the door of the old junker open.  
"Let's go, let's go, let's go." Sam's voice was an anchor and he clung to it as his head spun, blinking and rubbing at his eyes when his vision was obscured. He looked down at his hand dazedly, only then realizing how much blood was gushing from his head. Huh. No wonder Sam was freaking out.  
Sam had grabbed their duffel bags out of the trunk while Dean struggled to get out of the car, and his brother shoved a balled-up t-shirt into his hands with instructions to "put pressure on that before you pass out again, come on, we need to get out of here, _now_ " before he threw both bags over his shoulder and drags Dean after him.  
They half run, half stumble away from the car, and Dean leaned heavily on Sam's shoulder with one arm while the other attempted to staunch the blood rushing from the gash on his head.  
But they hadn't made it ten yards before he stopped in his tracks.  
"Forgot something," he blurted out before turning around and rushing back to the car as fast as his unsteady legs will carry him.  
Sam was at his side in an instant. "Dean, the guns aren't important, we need to _go_ -"  
But Dean's nothing if not stubborn as hell, and rushed forward until he tripped over nothing, collapsing against the side of the car and dropping the blood-drenched t-shirt to the ground.  
"Dean-"  
He tuned him out, staggering back to the open trunk and digging through their possessions, trying to wipe the blood from his eyes so he can actually see. He tosses away the dirty clothes, pushing aside bags of salt, ignoring the guns and protective hex bags and stakes until his hands close over the one thing in the car he knows they can't replace.  
He clutches Cas's trenchcoat to his chest with one arm, fingers digging into the fabric, and ignores the pain and Sam's pitying look to grab at Sam's shoulder, finally allowing him to lead them both away.

* * *

"How are you feeling, Dean?"  
Cas is there again. He's always there, even when Dean hasn't had to drink himself into unconsciousness, and Dean can't force himself to pretend he minds. Personal space complaints aside, he's just... He wants his friend back. That's all.  
"Been better," he replies, reaching up to touch the gash across his forehead that is, of course, not there in the dream. "I'm sleeping on the most uncomfortable sofabed ever, but at least we're out of the rain. But Sam's back is a mess. And he's the one who says _I_  need to go the hospital. He's such a freakin' girl." He sideeyes him. "But you knew that already, since you're in my head and all."  
"Ah. Yes. Of course."  
"I know you're not real," he says, sitting down on the park bench and rubbing his eyes. "I don't know why the hell I'm talking to you. You're dead. You've been dead for months, and I _know_  that, but..."  
He feels the bench shift as Castiel sits down next to him. "I believe it makes you feel better pretending I'm not."  
"Or maybe I just like yelling at you."  
Cas doesn't reply, just stares down at him in that piercing way, like he was seeing something about Dean that he can't see himself. "As long as it helps you."  
"Fucking- It's not always about me, Cas!" he snaps. "You were fighting a war and working with Crowley because you wouldn't even tell us what the hell was going on!" His hands had clenched into fists, and he knows he's yelling but doesn't care enough to stop. "Why didn't you talk to me, man? Why didn't you just _say_  something?!"  
Cas just sighs and looks away. "I thought I was protecting you." He's too calm, too accepting of Dean's anger, and that just makes him angrier.  
"You're not God, Cas. No matter what you said before. After everything- you really thought you could deal with all that by yourself?"  
"I think- I hoped that I could deal with the problems of heaven on my own, without forcing you in the middle of it again. But I suppose... I denied it to myself, of course. But I knew it was impossible. Or at least, highly unlikely."  
"Then _why?_  Why didn't you ask us for help? Why'd you try to fix it all on your own when you _knew_  you couldn't? We're- we were friends, Cas. You can't just start a fucking war for me and Sam and not even tell us what you're doing! I- Fuck." He bites his tongue, winds his fingers together, and tries to find the right words. "I _appreciate_  what you were trying to do. But we could have- fuck, I don't know what we could have done. Maybe we would've just gotten in the way. But you didn't even let us try!"  
"What could I say, Dean?" He shrugs, and it's such a painfully _human_  gesture that Dean's heart aches at the sight. "I couldn't bring you into this more than I already had. Not when you've already lost so much because of me and my interference."  
"Yeah, that worked out great," he snaps, turning more to face him. "'Cause now I lost you too, and shit's been just _fantastic_  since you walked into that river."  
"I did it all for _you_ , Dean."  
Dean stops, stares, but Cas just continues on.  
"I couldn't involve you. Not when you finally had everything you wanted. There were times..." Cas sighs. "So many times, I nearly broke down and told you everything." His voice is quiet and distant, and he's staring off into the distance of the park like he's not really seeing anything, like Dean isn't even there, even though it's his freakin' dream. "But I just thought of you and all the problems you are already dealing with, everything you've been through, and I couldn't- I didn't want to burden you any more." Cas purses his lips, and it's such a familiar gesture that Dean is suddenly almost overcome with the urge to force himself out of the dream and back into a bottle so he can't remember any of this.  
He finds his voice again, tries to ignore how rough it sounds. "I've been dealing with impossible shit my whole life, Cas. I can handle it, okay? You don't- you didn't have to protect me."  
"I know," Cas replies, unflappable as ever. "But I want to."  
Dean doesn't know how to reply, just stares as Cas gets to his feet and turns to stand in front of him.  
"You think saving everyone is your purpose, but it doesn't always have to be," he whispers, and Dean feels like he's frozen in place as Cas reaches out to touch Dean's cheek. "Let me help you." Cas tilts Dean's head gently upwards, and Dean feels like time is frozen in place except for the beating of his heart, and even in his dream it's pounding so hard that he feels like it's about to burst from his chest.  
Cas leans slowly forward to press a kiss on his forehead, and Dean closes his eyes and prays that he'll remember this when he wakes up.

* * *

The next morning, the gash on his head had completely healed.  
"Dean?" Sam stepped out of the bedroom of the cabin they'd found, his shirt still covered in blood, and he leaned against the doorframe and stared. "What-" he began, then took a few more steps forward so he could sit next to him on the bed. "How did-"  
Dean shook his head. He felt... strangely calm. Like he had a fever that had finally broken. "I don't know," he lies.  
"You okay?"  
Dean gingerly touched his forehead, and the memory of Cas's lips on his forehead feels just as real now, in the light of day, as it did when he dreamt it.  
The corner of his mouth twitched upward. It wasn't a smile, but it was closer than he'd gotten in months. "Yeah," he said, nodding slowly. "Yeah, I think I am."


End file.
